Chronicles of a Colourblind Rainbow
by D.G.Arrow
Summary: A series of one-shots concerning various snapshots in the lives of DoC's Tviets, since they're very much overlooked. Will contain numerous stand-alone pairings, but none as of yet. Mild swearing and violence later, plus some macabre imagery.
1. Beautifully Tainted, Terror and Shade

Chronicles of a Colourblind Rainbow

Hello everyone, I'm active again. Some of you may know, I've been replaying Dirge of Cerberus lately, and I reacquainted myself with my love for the Tsviets, particularly Nero, Weiss and Argent (online only, those of you who are unfamiliar) and I decided what better way to get back into my writing than with something I'm actually passionate about? So after an inspring conversation with Reading Chick (If you haven't read her stories, go and do so now) I came away with a series of prompts for one-shots, the first being this one. others will be posted as seperate chapters as and when I write them.

Relating to the title, I do not recall there ever being white, silver or black in an ordinary rainbow, hence the 'colourblind' bit, it's not just a random title. But I digress, I hope you enjoy this first one-shot, and thank you to RC for the idea. (By the way, this is not meant to be a Weiss/Nero pairing. Unless you count sibling bonds there is no relationship intended here, but you may choose to see it as such if you wish. And I apologise for the shaky start, I had some trouble getting back into my comfortable writing style, since I haven't written in a while.)

Disclamier: I, D., do not own any characters or locations in this story. They are the property of Sqeenix.

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Beautifully Tainted, Terror and Shade

The Lifestream. He could feel it thrumming through him like a herald. A war drum that called to the warrior within him. Or, mused the substantial part of him that was Hojo, the steady, satisfying pulse of a creation given life by his own hands. After all, wasn't that what Omega was? It was he, after all, who had taken those lives and offered them to the purest of gods. The saviour and destroyer all at once. It was his genius that had made this possible, his genius that had fooled the boy-

_No!_

Inside his own mind, trapped in that dark prison, Weiss the Immaculate forced those thoughts to halt. _Boy_? He knew to whom Hojo referred, and he would not have his own brother spoken of that way. Nero the Sable was _no boy_! The protective side of the Immaculate Emperor flared in anger and defiance, but even the passion of a brother couldn't suffice. Not enough to break the scientist's control, so Weiss railed against the walls alone and fruitlessly.

The struggle didn't last long, weak as he already was from the assorted events between the Restrictor's control and his infection with that accursed virus, and soon he found himself tiring. He found it ironic, perhaps, that now he was bound even tighter than he had been as Restrictor's pet, before merely collared like a mutt sitting at his master's feet. Now, unable even to have his own body without being forced to share it with some greasy weasel of a man.

At least, he thought with a twinge of bitterness, things were better for Nero now. At least it was Weiss that was chained, and not the darker Tsviet. The other half of his soul it seemed. Light and dark, day and night, shining hope and brooding despair.

At times, he deluded himself into thinking that maybe now he understood his little brother. There were certain similarities, after all. both had been restrained, kept from those they loved at some point in their lives. Both, and Weiss made no move to hide the disgust lacing this thought, had another presence within. And in fact, both served as an anchor to the other. In many ways they were so similar.

The thought caused Weiss to lapse, as he so often did now, into reminiscence. The memories flowed easily, this was something Hojo could find no way to purge. Some things, it seemed, remained to the Tsviet alone. There was some small comfort in this knowledge.

Hn. Comfort... Something he was quite familiar with. How many times had he taken the role of the comforting older sibling, after all?

He remembered, quite fondly actually, the first time. It might seem strange, to think fondly of a time when your own flesh and blood was tormented by nightly terrors of the mind. But he was, because that was all they had to fear. There was always Oblivion of course, and Weiss somewhat suspected that that was what caused the nightmares to begin with, but there was no Deepground. They were children, and they had been allowed to live, if only for a time. Even someone as heartless as Restrictor had seen the danger in bringing them to Deepground that early on in their lives. So they were left alone. Never allowed to the surface, but they were relatively happy...

Or maybe content was the word. Had they ever been happy? Yes, Weiss thought so, he thought he'd been happy when dear Nero had come padding in that evening, small jets of inky blackness shooting up here and there almost as wildly as his bed-hair. Weiss had not been afraid of the darkness, he knew that so long as Oblivion was Nero's he would never be hurt by it.

He remembered those impossibly wide crimson orbs peering at him in something akin to a mental plea for help, though even then the dark-haired boy had kept any outward signs of discomfort at bay. Weiss had chuckled then and scooted over to make room. No words had been needed. They were brothers, a look said more than mere human sounds, warped and distorted to form the crude language they spoke. A language with a thousand meanings for one word, but none of them the right one. They were brothers, and that had been all that was needed.

Looking back, maybe it had been wrong to laugh, but Weiss wasn't one for 'what-ifs', he never had been. It hadn't made an impact either, or if it had Nero didn't show it. He had merely shuffled across the room to the white-haired boy, swamped in pyjamas with arms so long they could have wound twice around his small frame. Weiss would later look at that horrible straightjacket and think back on this as some sort of perverse premonition.

The future-Tsviets had snuggled together in the admittedly quite cold and bare little room, the silence of night pierced by the occasional snuffle or sound of nervous fidgeting. Weiss had found it endearing that Nero was trying to be brave, trying not to show his fears. Trying to be more like his idol of an older brother. Endearing, and a little exasperating at times.

but Nero had always been transparent, Weiss even thought at times perhaps Shelke's title should've been his, and it had only taken a few coaxing words for it all to come tumbling out in a flood of tears and only partially coherent words..

At the time, it had seemed like just a fleeting bad dream. Something that would go away in time...

But it didn't. It got worse. And every time, no matter the year or their age, Nero would go to Weiss, and Weiss was happy. He was sure of it. Until Restrictor came. Then the true nightmares had taken shape.

And it all started with those Planet-forsaken wings. Even now, peering through his own eyes, though they were in Hojo's use now, he shuddered inwardly upon seeing them. He'd hated it from the moment it'd been proposed, how could they have even considered doing this to someone who wasn't even out of his teens?

But of course Restrictor wanted it, so Restrictor got it. Even now Weiss still felt revulsion when he remembered that day. Being the cruel monster he was, Restrictor had chosen a lab directly above where Weiss had been chained, choosing the perfect spot so his pet could here what happened to those who were 'tainted'. Weiss realised now, Restrictor had wanted to scare them all into obedience. What better way to do that than to reduce one of the Planet's most powerful beings to a shrieking wreck?

And shrieked he had. The Immaculate Tsviet could still recall it as though it were yesterday, forever emblazoned into his mind. Those terrified, and terrifying, screams. Wails of absolute agony. And amidst the howling of Oblivion's wrath and the sounds of whatever sickening tools they were using, the voice of a lost little boy crying out for the one person he thought could save him, not knowing that beneath the very table to which he was bound that person sat weeping, unwilling to listen further but unable to stop.

While Nero's screams had eventually died, Weiss' hatred and thirst for vengeance had only burned even brighter. Restrictor would die. His brother, and all the Tsviets, would be free. It had taken all of them, but they'd made it. Argent had been lost, and some part of Weiss missed her like the sister he never had, but they had won nonetheless. Or at least, they had beaten one enemy only to run smack into another. One that not even they could defeat. Because as loathe as Weiss was to admit it, Hojo was a genius.

Not that the Tsviets were stupid, but Hojo was a true genius, and completely out of his mind to boot. Out of his mind and into Weiss' the Tsviet noted dryly.

And yet despite this, the others were relatively free. Free to travel to the surface as Rosso had wanted. Free to revel in strength and blood as Azul had craved. Free to be more than a tool, as they all had needed. So Weiss didn't mind being Hojo's vessel, or Omega's vessel, because even though some of the things Hojo said to his brother were terrible and degrading, and the way he treated him like some errand boy was abhorrent, Weiss didn't mind so much.

He didn't mind because he knew that Nero wasn't the child plagued by nightmares, nor the lost little fledgling Tsviet wandering around in a drugged stupor as he had for days after the wings' installation. No, he was a true Tsviet now. Powerful, brilliant and utterly dark. For Weiss, the man that even now, on the eve of battle, stood loyally before his throne (Hojo's throne, he reminded himself quickly) was far from tainted. What did Hojo know about taints anyway, when he himself was a scar on existence? That festering infection that refuses to let go its malignant grasp on life. _That_ was Hojo. _That_ was tainted.

Nero was more. The counterbalance, the reason to Weiss' rhyme, the method to his madness, the point to all of his bluster. But even beyond that, Nero was vengeance. He was judgement come forth from unholy shade, swift and terrible and unendingly beautiful. Poetry in motion, Weiss might have said, if he was that sort of a man. He wasn't, but he could see where the expression might apply.

Tonight Nero would travel to the surface, to that place where their enemies gathered. Rosso would be there too, but the crimson would fade to a pallid pastel pink, almost unnoticeable in the shadow of depthless darkness. Oh yes, Weiss could almost see it.

This would be true freedom. Tonight the WRO would tremble in fear. Tonight Deepground would emerge victorious. Tonight there would be a bloodless slaughter, and shadows would writhe in a chaotic dance with the cacophony of Oblivion's lullaby. Tonight there would be glorious victory, but above all...above everything else there would be an eye for an eye, because tonight his dearest dark sibling would repay those sleepless nights in full...

Tonight, Nero the Sable would be their nightmare.

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Bear in mind when reading this that Weiss isn't all there, hence why the subject of his thoughts switches around a bit.


	2. Afraid of the Dark

Chronicles of a Colourblind Rainbow

I have finally completed the second one-shot in this series. My deepest and heartfelt apology and regret for not having finished it sooner.

I realise some might find this similar in tone to the first one, but I'm afraid my Nero muse tends to darken everything he touches, so all shots with him tend to be depressing. Next chapter will feature different characters most likely.

As a warning, there is dark imagery here, but nothing too graphic I shouldn't think. Once again, thank you to Reading Chick for the prompt.

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Afraid of the Dark

If there was one thing Rosso the Crimson prided herself on, it was that no-one could best her. Or rather, that was what she thought.

In her fragile, unstable mind she was the pinnacle of female might, untameable by any man...or woman, for that matter. So she told herself as she strode from what had once been Restrictor's chamber, head held aloft with that same pride. She was a goddess, bathed in the blood of a thousand men. And she liked it that way.

Smiling with a confidence that outshone the Transparent's sabres, the blood-maned temptress marvelled that their Immaculate Emperor had lasted so long. Weiss had once appeared, to her at least, unmovable. For a brief moment of the past her violently addled brain had surmised the wiles he sought were not those of a feminine physique. Of course, that was a very brief moment, and Rosso had quickly assured herself that Weiss had merely had too few encounters with her to fully appreciate what she could 'offer' him, even if the notion of someone not lusting after her at first sight was enough to make her snort in disbelief. What folly.

So she had upped her game, and won big of course. And hence she strode out of that chamber as though she were the queen of Deepground (which of course she might have been, given her recent success). Long legs carried her towards the exit of the literally green room, hips swaying alluringly as she walked. Just because she had Weiss where she wanted him, didn't mean she had to stop being perfect. It didn't really occur to her that Weiss might have been toying with her, or that perhaps he simply allowed her 'victory' because it amused him. Nor did it strike her that she might soon find herself in no small amount of trouble. That is, not until that telltale accent slid into her ears like the caress of silk on flesh. Almost a whisper, but not quite.

"I see we have been _busy_." A simple sentence on its own, but in that moment and with that emphasis, it carried a world of weight.

A chill crept up the Crimson's spine, not entirely due to the ever-present frigid air that seemed to drift around the darker Tsviet like an insistent lover. Rosso held her ground. She was not afraid of Weiss, and she was certainly not afraid of his pet brother.

"What of it, _Sable_?" She spat, throwing the title as one would an insult. After all, it was common knowledge among the Tsviets, the circumstances of Nero's birth and subsequent title. Less common was the knowledge that Nero despised the moniker. "Can't Weiss act on his own without need for you approval?"

"Of course he can." Replied the dark haired youth with forced nonchalance and a hint of dry mirth, if one could call so black a soul youthful. Perhaps young in years was a more apt term. "My brother's will is his own, and he will find his...entertainment, where he deems fit." Yet even as he said it there was the lingering feeling of irritation at the Emperor's actions. Not jealousy, just...irritation. In Nero's opinion Weiss simply had no time for these petty power games, yet he would never oppose his older brother on such a matter.

To Rosso, neither the pause nor the amusement in his tone escaped her, and she suddenly had the distinct impression she'd missed a joke somewhere along the line. She disliked the implications, and remained firm in the view that any who struck her would be struck back. So saying, her expression morphed into a disarmingly calm smirk.

"Then why the intrusion _Nero_?" She purred, noting with satisfaction how his posture stiffened when his name rolled forth from her lips. She did not often address him by name, and even less often was such address an indication of pleasant conversation. Pressing her advantage she moved towards him, bearing down on the shorter Tsviet with what small advantages she had. Her height for the most part. It was perhaps foolish to step so close to the Sable when he was obviously so wary, but Rosso was not one to be daunted. Still, she had to commend his steadfast determination not to take an automatic step back when she pressed almost flush against him, dragging a long fingernail down the side of his face as his own vermillion eyes flashed a warning. The only one she would receive.

Leaning slightly to the level of his ear she whispered. "Are you concerned that should I be in our Emperor's lap there would be no more room for you?"

By the time she saw the wrathful flare in his eyes it was too late to be considered a second indication of danger. She knew a boundary had been crossed, and not only crossed but scuffed out and desecrated in the process. She knew that even as Oblivion crashed down upon her like a vengeful tidal wave, swallowing her whole, and her senses were snuffed out like a candle. The last flicker of her defiance in the wake of the pitch black torment to come.

When again she could sense, she found herself inside a waking nightmare. A roiling, suffocating and all-encompassing prison decorated with the strange and macabre faces of past victims, twisted beyond all possible recognition. Rosso had never experienced Oblivion before, and what tales were told she simply brushed off as the men who bore witness being simply too weak, as all men were. So painfully and desperately weak. Now she was here amidst the deafening wailing of oceanic black and purple, she felt perhaps she had not credited them as she should have.

The chill returned, crushing her within its icy embrace. It beckoned her to it, demanded of her the thing she held to with her entire being. Her strength. Her defiance. Her will. Slowly, torturously it seized her and forced her to her knees. Worse still, she didn't even know exactly what 'it' was. Only that it was darkness and death and fear. It attached itself to her like a desperate limpet, and all the while Hell's dark angels sang a hymn of discord in her ears. Unearthly and unnatural.

She looked into Oblivion then, albeit unwillingly. Peered into the depths with her own eyes, and came face to face with herself. Not Crimson. Not even red. Just... Rosso, bereft of defences. So long past was this vision. A mere child, but even then she was strong...wasn't she? Oblivion mocked her silent query, screaming her weakness in a way she could not ignore. Through herself.

She was forced to watch with growing terror as her own impossibly broken mind was laid bare before her. Ambition, hope, dream, desire, victory, strength and so much more. Garbled messages and half-written memories. Prompts and snapshots in the photo-album of her life. Oblivion showed her everything she hid from the world. Her secret hopes, her weaknesses, her loves. It was trespassing and it burned. Freezing until she felt her skin and nerves would break from her body rather than endure that cold heat.

She screamed, and Hell's chorus joined her in voicing her agony, fragments of other souls clinging to her. Clawing at the one who was still even close to being whole.

Sinking into herself she almost wept, and would have done had she not been stronger. Mind drawing into itself even as shadow hands pulled it back into the open, bringing free the insecure child beneath the seductive, untouchable goddess. And there it ripped her apart.

Nero counted the seconds in his head as he waited. How long was it now? Ten seconds? More than enough then, he mused, exerting his control in order to bring Oblivion to heel. He didn't want to break his brother's toy too badly beyond repair after all. Slowly, as though lamenting the release of its prey, the writhing smog flooded back to him pooling at his feet obediently save for the rebellious wisps that refused to heed him. Let them be, he didn't care, so long as the majority remained subservient.

When the last vestiges of blackness had retreated, Nero observed his work, huddled and trembling. Wide red eyes fixed unblinking upon the eerily green-tinted floor. Normally pouting lips moved in incomprehensible muttering, and had Nero not spent most of his life being tortured in far worse ways he may have been moved to pity. But he had, and so he wasn't. In his mind and ears Oblivion sang its own praise, crowing at the fallen Valkyrie.

When Rosso finally realised she was free of that horror, she found that she was still unable to move, and that she at last understood in part. She made no effort to stop the welling curtain of saltwater from draining to her cheeks and down, though in reflection she would abhor this brief moment of vulnerability.

"My dear Rosso, are you alright?" Asked the dark Tsviet in poorly-feigned concern. But then, Nero rarely put much effort into feigning anything, least of all concern. When her only reply was a characteristic but oh-so-feeble glare, he smiled triumphantly, thankful for once that the confounded muzzle kept his expression unnervingly passive. He stepped towards her, knelt, and with arms now free from restraint he reached to tip her chin with long and deceptively gentle fingertips. And though his words were softly whispered, tone and stare were dual glaciers. Retribution for the earlier slur paid back a thousand fold.

"Whats wrong, _dear_ Crimson? Afraid of the dark?"


End file.
